Banter
by S.N. Blade
Summary: Harry and Draco dance back and forth with innuendo of sorts...A series of short humorous drabbles, fanon, but intended for comedic purposes only. Slash implied.
1. Tattoo

_Disclaimer: _I am neither making profit nor passing these off as my own. They belong to whoever has the rights.  
_A/N: _This short fic is a series of drabble done for a community. Not only do I know they're very fanon, but I also know that they're funny. They were intended to be for fun and not to be taken seriously. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

It's amazing, the things that happen when you're plastered. Somehow, you find yourself in situations you never would have dreamed of while sober. Okay, that's a lie, you might have dreamed of them, but you never would admit it in a million years. It's possible that even truth serum might not get it out of you. As it were, you've found yourself in this situation, the one you've fantasized about, or at least you've fantasized about the things that would happen if you ever made it into the Slytherin Common Room.

So here you are, Harry James Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Hero, the Saviour, drunk to near incoherency, and in the enemies' den nonetheless. You're not exactly sure how you ended up there, you just know that a lot of firewhiskey was involved. None of the Slytherins are trying to harm you, however, they don't exactly hate you anymore. It's not like you're their new best friend, it's more of they think the extremes have gone too radical and they're settling for the middle. Besides, your 'good-boy' persona was shattered that time you snogged a Ravenclaw in front of the whole Great Hall. How can you even think that clearly right now, you're bloody well drunk.

So as you stumble up the stairs to find some kind of bed to pass out in, you briefly wonder where you'll end up, and snort in amusement when you consider searching out Malfoy's bed just for the hell of it. You pass a group of the snakes, noticing that some of the girls are shirtless. Some of the boys are too, and you have to draw your eyes away as the defined lines of their muscles blur into deep crevices. Everytime one of them loses a piece of clothing, a word or words are magically tattooed onto his or her skin. The way the words swirling across the pale skin of Malfoy's stomach makes you ill, and you really have to look away as you continue to stumble noisily up the stairs.

You've made it to a bed and you allow yourself to collapse on top of the duvet. Immediately you pass out only to be woken some time later by another bumbling, fumbling, stumbling, drunk idiot in the form of one Draco Malfoy. "Oi," he slurs looking down at you. "You're in my bed, Potter." You smile ironically; you didn't even mean to find it, even though you'd nursed the notion. "What are you smiling about, you drunken fool?"

Sitting up, you ignore his words and push yourself to the side of the bed so there is room for him. He looks at you with a funny quirk to his brow before he throws himself down beside you, shirtless and trouserless. Now that you've noticed he is near starkers, you wonder why in all the hells you didn't notice before. Ah, that's right, you were too busy trying not to look. Propping yourself up on your elbow, you openly admire his body, shaking your head a few times so the lines quit blurring.

Malfoy fumbles for his wand and mumbles some charm on himself. "Tis a sobering charm, clears your head temporarily is all." You feel a stark coldness wash over your mind as you hear the charm spoken again. You smile goofily; now you can look and not have to shake your head because the definition of his muscles won't smudge. That's when you notice the words just above his pants line. You chuckle unashamedly as you read them aloud.

"Handle with care?" you ask incredulously, trying your best not to snort.

That familiar sneer covers his face as he sizes you up and down. "Bloody hell yes, handle with care," snorts indignantly. "I'm not having my treasure ruined by some..." but you cut off his words with your mouth.

As you bite down on his lip and he groans, you smirk. "You don't seem like you're one that likes to be 'handled with care'," as your hand slides down the front of his pants and squeezes his erection hard, eliciting a groan from those perfect lips. You might be able to see straight, but you're still drunk. Does it matter? No, not really, because this is the exact dream of the situation that would put you in the Slytherin Common room.


	2. Challenge

Just another typical weekend in the Slytherin Common room, you can remember things like this happening even when you were just a snotty first year. Of course you're still snotty, but your level of pureblooded snobbishness has matured greatly. Usual remarks are now below you, your wit and bites are much more sophisticated. You could think of more things to reassure others you have matured in your hatred, but as you take another shot of rum without a chaser and remove your shirt, those things become trivial to the matter at hand: you're losing the game tonight.

The tattoo doesn't hurt at all, the swirling effect actually tickles some. The feeling becomes a warming buzz on your abdomen as the alcohol warms your stomach. At one point, you noticed Potter milling about with the usual firewhiskey in hand. As a Slytherin, you don't hate the Gryffindor near as much as you used to. Hells, most of the other Slytherins don't either and that is probably because they took their lead from you, the Slytherin Prince. Yes, that's you, and you know it. It's not as if you're going to deny such a noble title, not when you're the most influential of the lot. You snort in irony when you realize Potter is Gryffindor's prince but would never assume to adopt such a title.

Continuing to imbibe an even greater amount of rum and other liquors is not helping your state any, but it is not as if you really mind at all. After all, that's what these Slytherin parties are all about: get trashed, plastered, smashed, having fun, and hopefully getting laid as you forget about the impending war, especially since most of you no longer want to join the Dark Lord's cause. Soon you find yourself trouserless, not exactly remembering what you lost this time to cause the removal of all but your boxer briefs. In true Malfoy fashion, you decided to quit and leave the game before you end up being the first in your birthday suit. As you stumble to stand up, you can't be bothered to search for your missing trousers and shirt, you just head for the stairs and hope you don't fall as you drunkenly make your way towards your own bed; so much for getting a piece tonight.

As you stumble towards what you assume is your bed (and soon remember it by its' immaculateness), you notice in a bought of irony that one passed out Harry Potter resides atop the duvet. You sneer at him once or twice as the two of you converse. You've already performed slight sobering charms so that you can think even more clearly. It doesn't seem to be helping much as he bites down on your lip and you groan. What's he saying? That's another thing you can't comprehend despite the sobering charm, as a firm hand on your erection is drawing away any attention and coherency that you had left.

"Well, Potter," you managed to force out in an even tone as his mouth moves down your throat, "I don't think you're much of one to be talking at this point. I've seen the marks on your body and I _know_ those aren't from Quidditch." Bloody hell, you've just admitted to him you've been staring at his body in the locker rooms. It doesn't matter, you're drunk, that's your excuse for now at least.

In yet more pure Malfoy style, you take control of the situation as you climb on top of him, slide your hands up his untucked shirt, and dig your nails into the not yet marked skin of his chest. You smirk as he groans lightly and arches his back for more. "I am going to teach you what it means to…" Well, so much for control of the situation; your alcoholheavy limbs are to slow to keep him from rolling over on top of you. Amazingly, he finishes your sentence before you can even manage to realize what is happening.

"…be handled with care? I have one thing to say to that, Malfoy," he sneers as he moves his face closer to yours. His breath whispers over your lips, he's that close, and you briefly hope your mouth doesn't taste of stale alcohol. "May the better man win."

Leave it to Potter to make this a challenge.


	3. Candles

Can't Get It Out of My Head

As you trot down the hall back to your own dorm, hazy with a hangover, you wonder if you'll make it in time so as to not pose any questions as to your whereabouts the previous night. As of late, it's been typical for you to disappear from the common room to clear your mind, and your friends have allowed you this, feeling sympathy for such a 'poor soul.' That makes you snort as you turn the corner right before Gryffindor Tower; they're 'poor souls', the ignorant prats.

Apparently your timing is perfect, you've returned just as others are heading down to the Great Hall for breakfast. You sit down in one of the comfortable chairs and wait for Ron and Hermione to make an appearance. Whilst waiting, you play over the previous night's activities, the ones that included a bed in the Slytherin dorms and one very playful Draco Malfoy. You laugh out loud as you remember one certain point during the night. You chuckle a bit more as you realize just how this must look to the younger years as they pass you by: you're sitting completely alone, look tired and disheveled, and you're laughing to yourself. Before the skittish first years have a chance to give you an even bigger girth, you spot your friends and stand, still smiling in amusement.

On the nearly silent trip to breakfast, you again burst out in laughter as you entertain yourself with thoughts of seeing Malfoy like that once again. Hermione gives you a skeptical look and Ron looks to her for some kind of answer; even she can't figure out what's making you laugh so very much and so very loud. You've made it to the Gryffindor Table without either posing a simple question as to what you find so amusing and so very entertaining. You've also made it through part of the meal, but as you raise your goblet to sip some pumpkin juice, you find need to replace it before your laughing seizure causes it to shower your housemates. As you double in laughter, trying your hardest not to look at the Slytherin table, Hermione can take it no longer.

"Harry, what is wrong with you today? You've been laughing like a madman all morning and I have not seen anything even remotely funny." You can tell she is offended by this, she seems irritated that you've not told them and they've been forced to ask you.

"I can't get it out of my head," you say, gulping for air between bursts of laughter. You catch sight of Malfoy glaring at you and this only fuels your amusement, especially since his oh so perfect hair is sticking straight up in the back. _Sex hair_, you think, laughing harder.

"Can't get what out of your head, mate?" Ron asks after downing a cup of tea.

"The…the look," you begin, "on Malfoy's face…when…when I…" You obviously couldn't finish the sentence through your laughter. It's not as if you wanted to finish it anyway, you couldn't very well describe to them the face that Malfoy made when you revealed to him just how sadistic you could be. What harm was a little candle wax?


	4. Flying

You can see that bastard sitting across the Great Hall amongst his golden friends, laughing hysterically at something. Eventually he looks as at you and you know what he's thinking about. Oh how you are going to make Potter pay for what he'd done with that candle wax. Pansy mentions something about your hair being a bit amiss and you immediately slap her hand away, grumbling something derogatory at her. Why can't that bitch just leave you alone? After the previous night's romp, you could care less about what people were going to say about your hair; what would they say when they found out who had made it that way?

And then you smirk, recalling something he has hopefully forgotten. You finish your meal quickly and approach the hiccoughing Gryffindor. How pathetic that he has laughed so hard as to cause himself to hiccough. His eyes are alight with mirth and you have the sudden urge to squirt catsup in them just to see him squirm in pain again. Of course it wouldn't be the same as last night when he'd begged to be unbound, but it would provide for a different kind of pleasure, a different kind of sadistic amusement.

Still, even if his eyes are laughing and his mouth is smiling, you manage to smirk as you replay the memory in your head. "Potter," you didn't really need to say his name, he was already looking at you, "somebody told me what you like to do with…" You continue to smirk as you lean down to whisper in his ear, making sure that your breath is light enough to brush sensually over his skin. You can see the goosebumps appear and this widens yours smirk. As you right yourself and leave the table, smirking over your shoulder at him, you admire the terror stricken look on his face. It resembles so closely the one he adopted last night when you summoned your broomstick.


	5. Laundry

"What we need is a diversion," you hear Ron mumble to himself. Of course he is the strategy behind this wee prank, after all he won so many points for playing the best chess gave Hogwarts has ever seen. You roll your eyes at this; like he has ever let you forget it. Of course, you never mention the things you've accomplished even having not grown up in this world. You shake your head; at this point, it just doesn't matter anymore.

The only reason you agreed to this prank in the first place was because for one thing, it involved the boy who made you blush at breakfast this morning. When asked about it you told the others he had degraded muggleborns, specifically Lily, your mother. It was then that the idea was spawned between the male Gryffindors you share a dorm with to prank the Slytherin Prince as form of revenge. It's not only revenge for the way he made you blush in front of everyone, then lie to them. No, to you, this was revenge for his 'flying' addiction; it was also an excuse to get him alone, for who better to take care of Malfoy than the one he personally insulted?

You stand up abruptly. Someone asks you where you're going since you are part of the prank as well. "To get supplies," you grin sadistically, smirking at their gleeful looks. They don't know what you're going to retrieve nor do they have any idea what exactly you're going to do with these supplies.

Knocking on the McGonagal's door, you wait impatiently for her to answer your call. She arrives at the door looking a bit flustered. Without much small talk to ask her for what you need,you looka bit sheepish for her benefit. At first she bulks, but you ask again. With a huff she leads you into the far room of her personal chambers.

"You're invading my privacy. You _do_ understand privacy, don't you?" It's rhetorical, so you don't answer. "Is that quite enough?" she asks five minutes later as she shoves the bag into your hands. As you leave smirking, you can hear her mumbling behind you. "Coming in here…all my laundry…what does he need them for anyway…my knickers, oh Merlin…" McGonagal must be very attached to her clothespins.


End file.
